


Reputation

by DistortedDaytime



Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Restaurant, Dorks in Love, M/M, Organized Crime
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-01
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-11 23:01:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29125386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DistortedDaytime/pseuds/DistortedDaytime
Summary: Marcel's tidy life as a chef gets turned upside down when members of the local crime syndicate start patronizing his restaurant.
Relationships: Łukasz Piszczek/Marcel Schmelzer
Comments: 40
Kudos: 34





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to [thatcrudeandknavishsprite](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thatcrudeandknavishsprite/works) for helping me create a mildly believable kitchen.

He hears it the instant they set foot inside his restaurant. 

The 09 is Marcel’s home away from home; he knows every single rhythm and cadence, from the clinking of dishes being washed, to the sizzle of meat on the grill, to the different voices calling out orders. 

It’s loud, systematic despite the appearance of chaos, until a silence descends and disrupts the order he works so carefully to maintain. 

Marcel can’t leave his station, so he snags the nearest waiter back in the kitchen. 

“Jude, what’s going on?”

“Not sure, chef. Two guys came in and some o’ the customers seemed to know them. Caught some whispers about ‘sigil idea,’ or somethin’.”

“Signal Iduna?” 

“Yeah, maybe! Yeah. That was it. Jadon’s putting them in my section.” He glances down at the meals on Marcel’s assembly line. “Can I take those plates, chef?”

Chest sinking, Marcel nods. The absolute last thing he wants on a busy night is for anyone from the fucking Signal Iduna to waltz in and put his _law-abiding_ customers on edge. 

“Jude.”

He turns back around. “Yeah, chef?”

“If they put one foot out of line, you come get me right away. Otherwise treat them like anybody else. Got it?”

Jude nods, wide-eyed. “Got it, chef.”

Marcel goes back to the steaks he’s searing. They can eat their meals, then they can leave, and he’ll have a word with Mats about it later. 

*

Jude comes bustling back with a ticket in hand. He puts it neatly in his place; Marcel tries not to grab right for it but the quickness of his hands is a dead giveaway. He narrows his eyes at the order as he calls it out for Jude and the rest of the crew. 

“Two top at table twelve, wants one John Wayne New York Strip, medium rare, with the Mediterranean salad, and one peppercorn steak, medium, without the grilled tomatoes.”

The answer comes back to him immediately, the order repeated and acknowledged. 

Marcel flicks a look out to table twelve, at the two men whose presence is niggling him like a popcorn shard between his teeth. One looks vaguely familiar, with blond hair and a crooked smile, but he can’t see the other one’s face. 

Jude’s learned not to wait for a dismissal. His spirits seem good; his shoulders aren’t tense and he’s not frowning like he does whenever he gets a difficult table. Whatever else the two men at table twelve are doing tonight, they’re treating his staff right, and Marcel will take the mercy where it comes. 

He gets lost in the dinner service again as the restaurant’s rhythms settle back to normal. All in all it’s been a good night; the specials are selling well and no one seems inclined to bitch about their food, and really, that’s all he can ask for. Marcel gets table twelve’s order plated up and sends it out just as the other man at table twelve turns around. 

Their eyes meet for a fraction of a second, long enough to send an unwelcome spike of adrenaline through him. 

“I’m stepping out for some air, and my alfredo sauce better not be scorched when I get back,” he calls over to Rapha.

Luckily Rapha’s the best sous chef Marcel could ask for; he calls out his affirmative in French as Marcel slips out the back door. The cold city air hits his face like a welcome slap; it wakes him up and jolts him back to the present. As a rule he doesn’t check his phone while he’s working, but tonight Marcel glances at it, and groans when he finds a text from Mats. 

_Marco’s in tonight. Make sure he eats a vegetable._

Fuck. No wonder the man at table twelve looks familiar, it’s Marco fucking Reus.

 _I’m not his babysitter_ Marcel types back furiously, and groans when he gets a laughing emoji in response.

“Chef!”

“Coming,” Marcel calls back.

He squares his shoulders and takes a deep breath. They’re just like everybody else, and once they’re done eating they’ll be out of his hair. Just a little longer.

*

“Thought you’d wanna know that table twelve’s done, chef,” says Jude. “No complaints at all, no dessert. I’m running the bill through now.”

“Give me the receipt. I’ll take it out to them.”

The two men appear to be enjoying their conversation as Marcel walks up to their table. Marco Reus looks much like he does in the papers, brimming with some devil-may-care bullshit that Marcel has no patience for. His companion, though...he’s attractive, Marcel notes with some distress. His shoulders are broad under his coat and his features speak strongly of the East, with keen blue eyes that don’t seem to miss a single beat. 

Enough. The one glance is more than enough, and besides, Marcel already knows damn well how he feels about both of them. He gets a flicker of joy in interrupting them with a polite, 

“Gentlemen, how was the food?”

Reus has the audacity to grin at him. “Wonderful. We’ll be back for sure.”

“Good. I’m glad to hear that.” 

“The peppercorn sauce was a little heavy on the cognac,” says Reus’s companion, and for a brief instance Marcel’s stunned into silence at the sheer fucking _nerve_ of such a statement, but he recovers and turns to meet the man’s gaze.

“I see. And remind me which chef you trained under?”

Across the table Reus makes a noise that might be a laugh, or a cough, or something in between.

“Just an observation,” answers the man.

Every self-preservation instinct in Marcel’s brain is screaming at him to drop his gaze and apologize. He does neither, raising an eyebrow instead. How dare this, this _criminal_ come into his restaurant and try to tell him how to do his job? 

“Next time try to make a more informed one, if you can,” says Marcel tartly. “Herr Reus, you’re welcome back anytime. You, though,” he points at the man, “The next time you need an alibi, go somewhere else.”

He leaves their receipt on the table and stalks off back to the safety of his kitchen. If anyone notices his hands trembling, they’re smart enough not to mention it.

*

When he finally locks up for the night, there’s another text from Mats waiting for him. 

_Congrats, you’ve got us new customers for life!_

_I don’t want the Signal Iduna in our place, Mats,_ he texts back. _Reus, fine, since he’s your friend, but not the rest of them._ _They’re trouble._

_You worry too much. They’re good guys._

_You don’t know that,_ Marcel types out, then deletes it. 

There’s no point in arguing with Mats over something neither of them want to budge on, and besides, he’s exhausted. 


	2. Chapter 2

Marcel spends the next week alternating between panicking that the Signal Iduna will come storming back and trying to forget he ever saw them. The resulting emotional limbo leaves him twitchy and thoroughly off-balance; he’s snappier than usual with the line cooks in charge of service prep to the point that everyone gets an afternoon lecture about the differences between a slice, a dice, and a chop.

It’s not one of his finer moments.

“It’s a good thing we run a dry kitchen,” Mats comments, “or else you’d be driving everyone to drink.”

Marcel tries to glare at him, but Mats is too right, and he gives up with a sigh. “I’ll give them an apology bonus.”

Mats hums. “Good. Do you want me to stay around for dinner? My brother’s being a traitor and canceled our plans, so I’m free if you want the company.”

“No, I should be fine. It’s Tuesday, so it shouldn’t be too busy,” answers Marcel. “Thanks, though.”

“Any time. Just remember, we’re shit out of luck if the whole staff quits, so fuckin’ relax, okay?”

Marcel flips him off with a smile. 

*

He’s midway through a completely unremarkable dinner service when Nico hurries back into the kitchen with a flustered look on his face. 

“Permission to speak, chef?”

Marcel nods, not looking up from the salad he’s tossing. “Go ahead.”

“The Signal Iduna are back. Well. Just one of them.”

Shit.  _ Shit.  _ Marcel passes off the rest of the salad to Rapha and follows Nico out front to the host station, where sure enough, Marco Reus’s companion from last week is standing in front of Jadon’s lectern. He says a quiet thanks that Delaney’s playing the music just a little too loud, so he can lean close and hiss, 

“I told you to stay away from here.”

The man shrugs his damnably broad shoulders. “I like the food,” he answers, and Marcel scoffs.

“You said my peppercorn sauce had too much cognac in it.”

“And then you told me I was wrong, and really, who was I to question someone who...what was it? Has actually been trained in cooking?”

Marcel searches his face, looking for even the smallest hint that he’s being mocked, because if this man came here to make a fool of him in his own place, he’s got anything coming...but, no. His eyes look sincere and his mouth doesn’t look like it’s holding back a cruel smile.

“I’m willing to reevaluate my opinion, if you’re willing to cook for me.”

Oh, for fuck’s sake. Marcel rolls his eyes and points at a table in the corner. “Go. Sit down, before I change my mind.”

He stalks back towards the kitchen without saying another word, but he catches Jude by the elbow. “I put the Signal Iduna in your section. There’s just one of them tonight. Same deal as last time, if they give you any kind of trouble you come get me right away, got it?”

Eyes wide, Jude nods. “Yes, chef!”

“Oh, and one other thing. He doesn’t get a menu.”

“Sorry?”

“No menus, not today, not ever. Just bring him a glass of the middle-range whites, whatever Felix is trying to get rid of tonight.”

“What...what if he complains?” asks Jude.

“Then he can go somewhere else.”

*

Back in the safety of his kitchen, Marcel starts plotting. He’s not the fanciest of chefs as a rule; his earliest memories of growing up in the East both before and after reunification shaped a lot of what he considers to be his vision as a cook and as an eater, but tonight he’s pulling out all the stops. 

He passes control of the kitchen off to Rapha, then puts his half-formed plan into action. Marcel pan sears a duck breast and then, letting his intuition guide him, concocts a citrusy sauce. Beetroot and some of their freshest seasonal vegetables round out the dish; the beetroot’s earthiness grounds the citrus’s bright zing while tying together beautifully with the duck’s natural richness. 

Not bad, for a meal he’s making up on the fly, for a man he does not want in his restaurant. 

Jude’s eyebrows go up when he sees the final product. “Going off-menu, chef?”

“Just today. Any problems?”

“No, none.” Jude bites his lip. “Chef, can I ask you something?”

“Go ahead.”

Jude leans in just a little closer and glances around like he doesn’t want to be overheard. “I know I’m still new in town, but why was everybody so worked up over table twelve the other night? And now you, today, with that same guy. Are they wronguns, or something?”

It’s a reasonable enough question, and yet. “Suffice it to say...there are rumors, about Signal Iduna. On paper they’re totally above board,” says Marcel carefully. “Off paper...I have my doubts.”

He doesn’t want to have this conversation, certainly not with a teenager still learning his way around, so Marcel nods to the plate. “Go on. Get it out to him.”

“Yes, chef!”

*

Marcel keeps sneaking glances out to the dining room as he cooks. Everything seems normal; Jude seems to be doing well with their visitor, and there’s nothing for him to be concerned about.

And yet. 

He feels the presence in his dining room like a splinter, subtly jabbing at his senses and refusing to be ignored. 

Eventually Jude comes back with the clean plates, wearing a bright smile. “He liked it, chef! Told me to take the plates right to you and tell you everything was great.”

He should be satisfied, and he is, mostly, but it’s tempered with his annoyance. Marcel nods to Jude and goes to take a better look. Fuck his entire life, the man’s even better-looking when he doesn’t know he’s being watched; there’s just a hint of grace to his movements and his occupies his space well. A few strands of blond hair obscure his profile, but there’s no mistaking the strength of his features or the softness of his mouth. 

The man picks that moment to look up, and Marcel’s breath catches when their eyes meet. He’d expected disdain, maybe, not patience and certainly not a curiosity that makes him feel more than a little exposed.

Without looking away, the man nods, but a waiter moves through their eye line and the moment shatters before Marcel can respond.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case anyone's curious, I'm basing The 09's menu off several different real restaurants: one in Dortmund, one in Warsaw, and one in my hometown :)


	3. Chapter 3

The moment replays itself over and over in Marcel’s mind, and by the time his mystery diner returns the following Wednesday, Marcel is more than a little over it. 

Jude isn’t working tonight but Jadon’s up front, so the man still winds up at table 12, just with Nico as his waiter instead of Jude. All seems well enough. That is, until Marcel peers out and sees that someone’s given the bastard a menu. 

Right. Nico doesn’t know, but he will, soon, and so Marcel goes out to table twelve and glares at his guest.

“Give me that.”

“What?”

He’s not in the mood for this, so Marcel plucks the menu right from his hands and walks straight back to the safety of his kitchen with Nico on his heels.   
  
“Uh, chef? What’s going on?” 

The irritation must show on his face, because Nico actually takes a step back. “I mean, how can I help?”

“You can’t. Don’t worry about his order, I’ll take care of it, and in the meantime, he can have water and one of the nicer Cab Savs, if he wants it. Bring his plates back when he's done eating. Oh, and Nico?”

“Yes, chef?”

“You haven’t done anything wrong. He’s just like any other guest, understood?”

“Understood, chef.”

*

Tonight Marcel goes more simplistic, and god help him, a little American. Their food culture is a mess at first glance, but he’s learned to look beneath the giant portions and the stereotypes for some truly great dishes. 

Like this steak sandwich. He learned the recipe from a visiting chef, and while it’s never made it onto the menu, Marcel’s never forgotten it, either. Premium ribeye grilled to perfection, smoked gouda cheese, a little arugula, and a horseradish aioli. Marcel sends it off with Nico and gets back to work. If he doesn’t acknowledge the jolt in his chest, then that’s Marcel’s business and no one else’s. 

Eventually Nico comes back with an empty plate. It’s the sign of an appreciated meal and a job well done, but instead of feeling satisfied, Marcel feels like he’s being mocked. He brushes past Nico and heads out into the dining room, straight for the table where the thorn in his side is nursing half a glass of wine with his credit card out on the table. 

“So. What was wrong with the sandwich?” Marcel demands. “Too much gouda? Was the ribeye overgrilled?”

“Nothing was wrong with it. It was delicious. Thank you, Chef...” he pauses and peers at the embroidery on Marcel’s jacket, “Schmelzer.”

Marcel nods once. “I already know Jude told you my name, _Vladimir,_ so you can drop the ceremony.” 

To his dismay, the man actually starts laughing. “Wait, Vladimir? What?”

“Shut up, it’s what I’ve been calling you in my head,” snaps Marcel.

“So you’ve been thinking about me?”

“That is NOT the point. I don’t know your real name, and you look like a Vladimir to me.”

“If I was Russian, maybe. But as it is, I’m Polish, and my name is Łukasz.”

“Fine. Łukasz. Whatever.”

The floor, being the unfeeling bastard that it is, does not swallow Marcel up. Instead, he’s left right where he is, embarrassed and off-kilter in front of someone who should see only his confidence. 

“Do you have a moment to sit?” asks Łukasz, after a beat. 

“That depends, how much time are you trying to fill before you’re covered?”

There it is again, the earnestness in those eyes. “I’m not trying to fill any time. I just wanted to talk to you.”

It’s a bad idea, a terrible idea, and yet Marcel finds himself dropping into the chair. “Really? Why?”

“Because I don’t understand why Marco Reus gets a pass and I don’t.”

“Because unlike you, he’s been vouched for,” says Marcel, crossing his arms. “And he doesn’t criticize my cooking.”

To his surprise, Łukasz actually winces. “I really am sorry about the peppercorn sauce. It was great, I was just…” 

“What?” 

“My mouth got away from my head for a second,” he finishes. “That’s all my fault. Nothing to do with your food.”

Marcel softens a fraction. “Fine.” 

“So, who vouched for Marco?” asks Łukasz

“My business partner, not that it’s any of your concern.”

“So then...Marco could vouch for me.”

“No, because that’s not how this works. Mats and Marco go way back, long before Mats and I started this place. He’s Mats’ friend, not mine. I’ve got no reason to trust him.”

“And no reason not to,” Łukasz points out, and Marcel throws his hands in the air.

“Why are you pushing this? There are dozens of other restaurants all over Dortmund you could go to that would be happy for Signal Iduna’s business. Hell, there’s a great oyster bar right down the street, and some really good Thai fusion about three blocks west of here. Go someplace else.”

“But I like it here.” 

“You do realize that’s not an answer.”

“It’s the truth,” says Łukasz. 

Marcel hates, _hates,_ that he can feel his cheeks heating up. This stupid _man,_ with his stupid _reputation,_ and his stupid _face,_ who won’t be put off by any of the venom Marcel keeps throwing at him. He resents the determination, but more than that, he resents the undeniable part of him that’s responding to the challenge. 

“If you really want me to stay away, just tell me,” Łukasz says after a long moment. “I won’t bother you again.”

Marcel takes a deep breath and thinks it over. No, taking the out feels too much like giving up, and like hell is that going to happen. He squares his shoulders and tries to look as dignified as he can with red cheeks.

“You’re on probation.”

Łukasz nods, smiling a little. “All right. What are the terms?”

“Don’t come in before 8 o’clock and don’t try to trick any more of my staff into giving you a menu. As of now they’re all under orders not to give you one.”

“What about if I want to try your lunch menu?”

“Then don’t show up before 2.” Something occurs to him suddenly. “Do you have any food allergies? Nuts? Shellfish? Trouble with gluten?”

“Not as far as I know, no.”

“Good.”

Marcel stands up. He straightens his jacket and fixes Łukasz with his best stare. “Don’t make me regret this,” he says, and retreats back into his kitchen without another word.


	4. Chapter 4

_open up._

Marcel squints at the text through half-awake eyes, but the words don’t change. _what?_

Someone knocks on his door. Instantly Mimi and Oskar abandon their places on Marcel’s bed and go running for the entrance, barking their warnings at the intruder. Marcel groans, but he gets up and pulls on a pair of sweatpants before following them to open the door.

Sure enough there’s Mats waiting out in the hall like it’s totally normal to show up like this without any warning. He at least had the good sense to bring coffee, though, and Marcel takes the offering greedily.

“Asshole.”

“Such a charmer in the morning,” says Mats, and nudges his way inside.

Marcel takes a long sip of his drink. The coffee’s too hot and it burns his mouth a little, but it’s just milky enough and the caffeine will do its work soon. He settles on the couch with Oskar since Mimi stole his favorite chair, and nudges Mats with his foot.

“What are you doing here? You usually sleep all day if you’ve got dinner service.”

“I’ve got energy today,” says Mats airily. “Oh, and I wanted to invite you to this little thing I’m having Friday night. My friends from Munich are in town.”

Marcel gives him a look. “I’m working Friday.”

“Actually, Rapha and Daxo agreed to do that thing where they fuse their mismatched sous chef bodies into a head chef Transformer, so you’ve got the night off,” Mats answers.

“So let me get this straight. You took the schedule - the one that we make together, for the business we co-own - and tinkered with it behind my back so I’d be free to go along with whatever plan you’ve got up your sleeve?”

Mats nods and salutes Marcel with his coffee cup. “I also made sure you’re covered for lunch on Saturday so you don’t have to rush.”

Marcel thinks about complaining, but that takes effort, and besides, Mats _did_ bring him his favorite coffee. “Fine. I’ll come.”

*

Friday night Marcel finds himself outside Mats’ building. He’d decided not to bother with gloves for the short drive over, but now, texting in the frigid wind, he has regrets, especially since Mats doesn’t seem inclined to text back and let him in.

He’s just about to forgo texting altogether and call him when a vaguely familiar voice calls his name. 

“Marcel! Hey!”

He looks up at the small group approaching and groans. There’s Marco Reus, smiling in that crooked way of his, surrounded by two men Marcel doesn’t recognize. For a brief, terrifying moment, he wonders if they’ve been following him, but Reus just brushes past him to press the buzzer and miraculously the door opens. Reus holds it open for his companions, then nods to Marcel.

“You coming?”

“Um-”

“Mats said you’d be here tonight,” Reus continues. “Are you coming in? I’m freezing.”

There’s nothing to do but go inside. 

*

Mats opens the door to his flat with a shit-eating grin on his face and a cocktail in his hand. Based on the flush staining his cheeks, it’s not his first of the evening. 

“Gentlemen! You made it!”

He ushers them inside like a grand emcee and not the semi-tipsy idiot he is. “Snacks are in the kitchen and drinks are around, so make yourselves at home.”

“Mats, what the fuck-”

“Relax. You’ll have fun, I promise! Thomas brought games and I’ve made sure Marco can’t hijack the playlist.”

“I’m not worried about the music,” hisses Marcel. “You didn’t tell me I was going to be trapped at a party with _thugs._ You planned this, didn’t you?”

Somehow Mats has the audacity to give him a pitying look. “You’ve really gotta stop judging people before you get to know them.”

“They’re-”

“Oops, gotta go!”

Mats ducks off, leaving Marcel by the open liquor cabinet. He glances at the door and thinks about going home, but his pride keeps him rooted to the spot. Fuck Mats, and fuck his stupid friends. He can play nice. He’ll be so nice they won’t know what to do.

As tempting as the whiskey is, Marcel opts for beer instead. He finds a corner of the room and settles in to people-watch. There’s plenty to observe; Mats’ Bavarian friends mingle with the Signal Iduna and everyone except Marcel seems to be having a lovely evening. He can’t help but hate out-of-place he feels. Social interaction has never been Marcel’s strong point and he’s long been self-aware enough to recognize it, but the awkward feeling never quite fades, no matter how many times he finds himself at gatherings like this.

Across the room he notices Reus watching him. Instantly Marcel’s plan about being nice goes to shit. Something about him just sets Marcel’s teeth on edge and he can’t fully figure out why. There’s the obvious shit, yeah, but it’s deeper than that, growing stronger by the second as Reus walks over to him and gets right in his personal space like they’re friends or something. 

“Having fun?”

“I was,” grouses Marcel. “Until I realized i’m here under false pretenses.”

Reus actually seems to consider that. “Mats told you he was having a party, right?”

“But not who he invited.”

“Ah.” Reus’s gaze shifts, from guileless to observant. “Are you from Dortmund originally?”

“No,” Marcel answers, frowning a little, and Reus nods.

“I was born here. Lived here most of my life, really, except for a few years when I worked in Mönchengladbach, but I moved back as soon as I could.”

“So?”

“So it’s my home.”

“I don’t see where you’re going with this,” says Marcel.

Reus shrugs and takes a sip of his beer. “I want to protect my home and the people who live here. Make it better for everyone. I thought starting a security firm would be a good way to do that, so I’ve built my whole business around the idea, with people who want to help me do it. We’re all kind of misfits, in our own way, you know?”

Unbidden, Marcel thinks of his kitchen. 

“Like...okay. You’ve got guys from all over at your place, right?” Reus continues. “That’s how we are. Thorgan and Axel are from Belgium, then- oh, shit, sorry.”

He takes his ringing phone out of his pocket and answers it. Marcel tries not to listen in, until Reus nudges him.

“Piszczu’s at the store down the street and wants to know if he can grab you anything.”

“Oh. Um. Orange juice,” says Marcel, just to be contrary.

“Okay.”

Reus goes back to his conversation then hangs up. “Sorry. Where was I?”

“Trying to convince me that you’ve actually got a moral high ground despite all the blood on your hands. Look, Reus-”

“Marco.”

“Whatever. Listen- just. I don’t...I don’t _care_ about the lies you need to tell yourself, okay? So drop it.” Despite his churning stomach and sweaty palms, Marcel refuses to back down. “Mats likes you all, fine. That’s his business. But leave me out of it.”

“Fine. I’m sorry for bothering you. But, just so you know, a lot of what we do is actually pretty boring.” He holds up his hands. “See? No blood. If you want someone offed, you’ve gotta go to Gelsenkirchen. Not our thing. We’re more…” he makes an odd gesture. “We offer an incentive, is how I like to think of us.”

“I...what?”

“Okay, lemme give you an example. Let’s say someone’s got a bad ex that won’t leave them alone. It happens, right? Some people don’t take no for an answer even if there’s a restraining order telling them to back the fuck off. So that’s where we come in. Make sure they get the message. I told you, I protect my home.”

There’s something deeply surreal about standing in Mats’ living room, holding a mediocre beer, listening to all of this. Marcel’s anxiety settles some and his heart rate starts approaching normal again; he doesn’t _like_ Marco Reus, probably never will, but he’s not as adverse to reaching an understanding as he was half an hour ago.

Mercifully Marco changes the subject and starts telling Marcel all about the rubber duck he keeps at his desk for coding, but he gets distracted when he sees the door open. 

“Piszczu! Hey, over here!”

Marcel’s gaze follows Marco’s pointing arm across the room, to where Łukasz is shrugging out of his coat and scarf. The nerves in his stomach come roaring back, fizzy and prickling this time instead of heavy with dread, and he can’t decide if that’s better or worse. 

“Fuck,” he mutters, and Marco just claps him on the shoulder and strides off as Łukasz approaches. 

Just like that, they’re alone. Marcel scrambles for something to say, before settling on,

“Piszczu?”

“My last name is Piszczek, so a lot of my friends call me Piszczu for short.”

“I think I prefer Vladimir.”

Łukasz laughs. “If you want.” He holds up a bottle of orange juice. “Here.”

“Oh. Uh, thanks.” 

Marcel hadn’t been serious about the juice, but he takes it anyway. He waits for Łukasz to move away or start talking to other people. Instead, Łukasz gets a drink of his own and stays near Marcel, nodding to people as they pass without making any real overtures towards talking to them. 

Finally, Marcel can’t take it anymore. “What are you doing?”

Łukasz gives him a considering look. “What do you mean?”

“Don’t bullshit me. Why are you standing here, wasting your night with me when you could be spending time with people who are actually nice to you?”

“Maybe I like that you’re a little mean.”

He moves just a touch closer, smiling, and the expression feels like a slap in the face. All of their interactions at the restaurant take on a sickly green hue and Marcel could kick himself for being so stupid. 

“I get it. Fuck, I...I can’t believe I didn’t see it before.” Marcel laughs to himself, utterly without humor. “All of this, you coming into my place, now standing here with me where everyone will see it...I’m a joke to you.”

“You’re not,” says Łukasz, frowning. “Why would you think that?”

There’s something cleansing about anger. The feeling stings, just as if he’d cut his finger open on one of his kitchen knives, but it’s honest, so Marcel keeps going.

“Come on. You can tell me what you and Reus and the rest of them say, when I’m not around. Only good for one thing, right?”

“Marcel-”

“What was next? Get me interested, then laugh at me when I finally decided to act on it? Fucking hilarious, right? Something to tell the wives and girlfriends back home, eh?”

Marcel breathes around the ache in his chest. He waits for Łukasz to confess or start throwing punches or something, but instead, Łukasz just stares at him, mouth turned down, eyes flat. 

“Drink your juice, Marcel,” he says finally. “I’ll see you around.”

Łukasz walks away without a single glance back.


End file.
